


Broken Dawn

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [32]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Secret Exposed, fear of the unknown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-14 16:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16496240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: In the three years since coming to Toronto, Lance has learned about technology, about magic, and about having a family that’s far more than just blood.  But actions have consequences and wizards often fear what they don’t understand.  As things heat up, Emrys reappears with a startling offer for the young Wild Mage.





	1. Broken Secret

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the thirty-second in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "The Sergeant and the Gryphon Cub".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

Jules swapped Donna’s cuffs for her runic cuffs on Helen Smith, also taking the opportunity to pull Smith’s arms _behind_ her back; the sniper/negotiator was _determined_ that neither Smith sister was going to get another chance to inflict any more damage than they already had.  Once the cuffs were swapped, she handed Donna back her cuffs and eyed the scene at the briefing table with growing concern.

Lance was hovering over his seated uncle as Auror Simmons pushed up Sarge’s pants leg to see his injury better.  Ed, on the Boss’s opposite side, cringed as they all regarded Parker’s injured leg; somewhere between getting thrown into the wall and the explosion, a chunk had been taken out of the Sergeant’s left calf muscle, leaving a very nasty injury that was bleeding profusely.  How her boss had been able to _stand up_ , Jules didn’t know.  The constable shuddered; an injury like that could spell the end of her Sergeant’s career.

Simmons swore softly under his breath as he regarded the damage.  The wizard pulled his wand, and, tracing it over the injury, cast, “ _Vulnera Sanentur_ **(1)**.”  The blood flow slowed, but did not halt, even after Simmons cast his spell twice more.  The Auror let out a frustrated oath and his shoulders slumped.  “We’ll have to get you to the hospital, Sergeant Parker; that’s the most powerful healing spell _I_ know.”

“I can heal it,” Lance offered, a mix of tentativeness and assertiveness in his expression.

Auror Simmons grunted, unimpressed by the claim.  “You haven’t even finished school _and_ your wand’s been broken,” he pointed out gruffly.

Lance ignored that, focusing on his uncle instead.  “I can heal it,” he repeated, quiet confidence in his statement.

Pain was evident in Sarge’s eyes, but he evaluated his nephew carefully.  “You’ve already used quite a bit of magic today,” he observed.  The teen inclined his head in acknowledgement of that point, but his expression turned steady and confident.  “Are you sure?” the Boss asked.

“Yes.”  Without waiting for anything more, Lance knelt, resting his right hand on the Sergeant’s leg, just above the injury.  “ _Thurhhaele_ **(2)**,” he murmured, his voice soft, but direct and to Jules’ surprise, her boss’s leg glowed gold for an instant; when the gold faded, there was, beyond the dried blood and his uniform’s torn pants leg, no sign that he’d even been injured at all.  Startled exclamations came from almost everyone else in the room and Jules noticed that Helen Smith tensed at the sight of the golden magic.

Auror Simmons was the most astonished; he carefully prodded at Sarge’s leg without asking, whistling under his breath and tossing Lance a look that was both impressed and fearful.  “What _was_ that?” he inquired, a wary expression on his face.

The teen shrugged, not seeming to notice the wariness in the Auror’s posture.  “Old Magic,” he replied simply.  Cocking his head to the side, he volleyed a question of his own back.  “Why?”

Maria Smith laughed bitterly, pulling attention to her at once.  “ ‘Why’?” she mocked before spitting, “Only a little _freak_ Wild Mage like _you_ would use the Old Religion.”

“That’s enough,” Auror Simmons snapped, incidentally cutting Lance’s retort off as the Auror pushed himself upright and gave the woman an angry glare.  Looking down to a still seated Sergeant Parker – who was also frowning at Smith – he remarked, “I trust that you can get your fellow officers signed onto the Official Secrets Act?”

Parker shifted and stood himself, grimacing a little as his sore left leg took his weight.  “I’ll take care of it,” he promised.  “And these two?”

Auror Simmons gave the Smith sisters grim looks.  “They’re headed right back where they came from,” he growled.  “Auror Division lockup.”  He strode towards them, then paused, looking over at Lance.  “Heir Calvin?”

Lance tilted his head to the side, studying the Auror’s face for a few moments.  “Yes?” he finally asked.

“I’m sorry.”  Without explaining his cryptic statement, Auror Simmons collected both Smith witches and Disapparated away with them.

* * * * *

Lou was a bit unnerved by what he’d noticed of Auror Simmons’ behavior after it became obvious that Lance was, in fact, a Wild Mage.  Wary, cautious, and careful to keep from making any movements, threatening or otherwise, in Lance’s direction.  And very formal, even after Lance had given the Auror permission to call him by his first name.  In short, Simmons had acted like a man confronted with an animal he feared would bite him at the _least_ little provocation.

Without being asked and mentally puzzling over Simmons’ behavior, the less-lethal specialist headed for the locker room to retrieve the Official Secrets Act forms and detoured to Commander Holleran’s office.  A quick knock on the commander’s office door produced the expected call to, “Enter.”

Lou pushed the door open and stuck his head in.  “Sir, Team Three just found out.”

Holleran looked up from his paperwork, an expression of wary caution flashing across his face.  “Found out what?”

In response, Lou waved the stack of Official Secrets Act forms and added, “Also, um, the briefing room’s wall should probably get checked out.”

Halfway through standing, Commander Holleran paused.  “And why would that be, Constable Young?”

Lou winced and moved inside the office, closing the door behind him.  Briskly, he explained what had just occurred and how Team Three had discovered magic’s existence.  The less-lethal officer left out his boss’s injury and Auror Simmons’ attitude towards Lance, but did inform his superior that the De-Aging Potion on the teen had run its course.

Commander Holleran frowned, considering his constable; he could tell that Young had left a few details out, but the commander opted to deal with the immediate issues and deal with whatever Young was holding back later.  “Is everyone in the briefing room?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir,” Lou confirmed.

Holleran nodded and shooed the constable out of his office, closing the door behind them.  “I’ll speak with Team Three and finish briefing them on the wizarding world and your team can figure out how to handle the fact that two witches attacked us on _our_ turf.”

“Yes, sir,” Lou agreed, though his shoulders tensed.  He wasn’t sure why, but he had a bad feeling about where this situation was going…

* * * * *

Simmons dragged the Smith sisters into the Auror Division’s holding area, fuming at just how _close_ the siblings had come to executing his fellow Aurors.  Spying a nearby guard, he barked, “Get these two processed and put into cells.  And _next_ time an advocate and a suspect’s family member show up with a demand to move a suspect into a conference room, make sure you _bloody well search them for Portkeys first!_ ”

So saying, he all but hurled the sisters at the hapless guard and stalked away to find the jail’s administrator.  Once he found the wizard, he gave the idiot a piece of his mind, informing the wizard – in a calm, yet frigidly icy tone – that if he couldn’t keep up the Anti-Portkey wards that _should_ have been on both the cells _and_ the conference rooms, then maybe the Auror Division would have to find itself _another_ jail administrator.

Once Simmons was done venting his temper, he swept out of the holding area and headed back toward the Division’s bullpen to find out how the press conference had gone.  As he walked, he considered how to word his report to Madame Locksley; she was almost certain to ask why one of Team One’s largest critics was being so firm in his defense of them.

In truth, the answer was quite simple: Simmons regarded his criticism of Team One as an in-house issue.  Inside the Auror Division, Simmons was willing – and very able – to criticize Team One as much as he pleased, but take one step _outside_ the Auror Division and Simmons was one of the first to close ranks and protect his own.

As much as he disliked Team One, they were _still_ fellow Aurors and Senior Auror Simmons respected them for taking their oath to protect and serve just as seriously as _he_ did.  Because they _were_ fellow Aurors, he was willing to guard their backs just as he would any other.  None of this meant he _liked_ them; quite the reverse, actually; but he would sooner resign from a job he loved than betray another Auror.

With a sigh, Auror Simmons ran one hand through his hair and entered the Auror Division bullpen.  Almost immediately, he spied Aurors Onasi and Lane in Madame Locksley’s office and headed in that direction himself.  Entering the office, he found himself the center of attention as the two Aurors and Madame Locksley all swung in his direction.

“My brother?” Lane questioned anxiously.

“He’s fine, they’re all fine,” Simmons replied, turning his attention to Onasi.  His voice turned hard and he growled, “Tell me you didn’t know Calvin’s a Wild Mage.”

“A Wild Mage?” Madame Locksley demanded incredulously.

Lane looked puzzled while Onasi’s expression was grim, but steadfast.  “What difference would it have made, sir?  It’s not like Heir Calvin can _help_ what he is, what kind of magic he was _born_ with.”

“You _know_ what Wild Mages are,” Simmons snapped angrily, whirling to pace back and forth in Locksley’s small office.

Onasi didn’t pull back; he gave Simmons a deadly return glare.  “What _I_ know is that _neither_ of those two kids are a threat – not unless you’re stupid enough to attack someone they care about and then all bets are off.”  The Auror crossed his arms, his eyes defiant.  “So what exactly did Heir Calvin do that tipped you off, sir?”

Simmons deflated a bit and mumbled, “He healed Parker’s leg with the Old Religion.”

Lane snorted.  “That’s it?” he mocked.  “The kid heals his uncle’s leg and you hit the roof?”

“Roy, shut up,” Onasi ordered, drawing a surprised, hurt look from his partner.  Focusing on Simmons, Onasi questioned, “What are you going to do?”

“You would have us hide the existence of two Wild Mages, Auror Onasi?” Madame Locksley inquired sharply; Lane’s expression turned startled at the hard edge in Locksley’s voice and Simmons was prepared to bet his annual salary that Onasi hadn’t told Lane about any of the history behind Wild Mages.

“Neither of them have done anything wrong,” Onasi argued.  “And they’re both Heirs of an Ancient and Noble family.”

“It’s not up to us,” Simmons interrupted; he turned away and his voice was heavy.  “The Smith sisters saw him use the Old Religion; they know he’s a Wild Mage.”

Silence fell; Lane fidgeted at the horrified look on his partner’s face.  Then Onasi whipped around to Locksley.  “You can’t let the Division of Mysteries get a hold of him, ma’am.  Merlin only knows what they’d do with a _full_ Wild Mage in their custody.”

Madame Locksley pinched the bridge of her nose, breathing out slowly.  “Regardless of what the Unspeakables would or would not do, we cannot suppress the existence of a full Wild Mage – much less _two_ – from the public.”

“You know what that would do,” Auror Onasi hissed, dismay written across his face.  “They’ll be ostracized, treated worse than _werewolves_.”

“That may be so, Auror Onasi, but you know the law as well as _I_ do.  If a Wild Mage is discovered and confirmed, their existence _must_ be disclosed to the public, lest their anonymity endanger the community in which they reside.”  Madame Locksley sighed, her regret clear and she added, “You and Auror Lane are excused; go to SRU headquarters and tell Parker what’s going to happen.  If, after this, he and his people wish to end their association with our world, there will be no repercussions.”

Simmons cleared his throat.  “Ma’am, I don’t think that’s going to work right now.  In the process of attacking Team One, the Ladies Smith broke the Statute of Secrecy in front of SRU Team Three.”  Shifting uncomfortably, he continued, “When I left, Team One was explaining the wizarding world and getting Team Three signed onto the Official Secrets Act.  Until Team Three is established and trained, I don’t think we can _afford_ to let Team One pull out.”

Madame Locksley drummed her fingers on her desk, an expression of distaste on her face.  After a minute or so of thinking, she nodded to herself and looked up.  “An excellent point, Auror Simmons.  However, I cannot and _will_ not expect Auror Sergeant Parker to choose between his wards and this division.  My decision stands.”

Turning towards Onasi and Lane, she met their eyes.  “While I understand your motives in keeping Heir Calvin’s secret, I cannot let your actions pass without punishment.  Once you have informed Team One of my decision regarding Heir Calvin, you are relieved of duty for the next three weeks.  This does _not_ apply to your duties in the 12 th Division, mind you, but I don’t want to see hide or hair of either of you until your punishment is over.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Auror Onasi gritted out; Auror Lane looked just as angry, but he followed his partner out the door without a word of protest, though his stiff, rigid stance spoke volumes.

Once they were gone, Madame Locksley turned to Auror Simmons.  “Prepare a press release about the Heirs Calvin and their identity as Wild Mages.”

“Yes, ma’am.  And the Smiths?”

Locksley allowed a moue of distaste.  “See that they are charged with attempted murder; one count for each Auror they tried to kill.  Also one count against Helen Smith for suppressing a Wild Mage’s magic.”

“What about the kidnapping, line theft, and breaking a minor’s wand?” Auror Simmons inquired.

“Drop them,” Locksley ordered sadly.  “None of that is illegal when the victim is a confirmed Wild Mage.”

Simmons inclined his head, accepting the orders as he turned to the door.  In the doorway, he paused, looking back at his superior.  “Doesn’t seem right,” he remarked, meeting her eyes.

Madame Locksley didn’t respond until her Auror left, closing the door behind him.  Then she looked down at her desk, her eyes stinging with regret.  “No,” she admitted to the empty room, “It’s not.”

 

[1] Latin for ‘may the wounds be healed’

[2] Old English for ‘heal thoroughly’


	2. Broken Justice

By the time Roy and Giles arrived at the barn, the excitement of the morning/early afternoon had settled down.  Wordy called Shelley to tell her where Lance was and that he’d regained his usual age; the constable then handed the phone to Lance so he could listen to Shelley scold him for running away and endangering himself.  The teen meekly submitted to the rant and even managed to sound contrite, despite the fact that every last member of Team One knew he didn’t regret his actions in the _slightest_.  Once the scolding was over, Sam took the teenager aside to get his statement about the car accident and as much as he could remember of the kidnapping.

In the meantime, Greg, at Commander Holleran’s insistence, changed out of his dusty, blood streaked uniform, socks, and boots; while the commander suspected the two witches would be charged under wizarding law, he was too good of a cop to hide the evidence of a crime against his subordinate.  The briefing room was catalogued as best it could be with the evidence of the attack and explosion already gone; Parker’s clothing was bagged and tagged.

Greg changed into his older, all gray uniform and found a pair of boots he’d missed in his last spring cleaning of his locker; Spike lent his Sergeant a pair of clean socks when Greg couldn’t find his own spare pair.  Once he was done changing, Greg returned to the main part of the station to find Team Three in a spirited debate over how they could use magic for their day-to-day activities; Parker was grateful that it looked like Commander Holleran was already moving in to explain why that wouldn’t work…it meant _he_ didn’t have to do it.

Then two familiar detectives entered the barn, both men looking as if they’d just been ordered to kick a helpless, injured animal, and Greg stiffened, his sixth sense screaming that whatever they had to say, he _wasn’t_ going to like it – at all.

Ed spied the new arrivals next and, judging by his wary tone, he spotted the same thing Greg had.  “Roy?”

“Hi, Ed,” Roy called, forcing a smile on his face.

Commander Holleran looked up from his debate with Team Three and glanced over at the two men.  “Detectives, is there something you need?”

Giles didn’t even _try_ for a smile as he met Holleran’s eyes.  “Roy and I need to talk to Team One, sir,” he informed the commander.

Holleran studied Giles’ expression for a moment, a frown appearing on his face.  “Use the briefing room,” he decided.  Turning back to Team Three, he added, “Let’s continue this in my office.”

Lance, a bit adrift since Sam had finished up their interview, moved towards Winnie’s desk, but Giles shook his head.  “You, too, Heir Calvin.”

Greg’s bad feeling about the entire scenario grew at the regret in Giles’ eyes.  The Sergeant moved to his nephew’s side, tugging the teenager into the briefing room and keeping him close as the rest of Team One assembled and gave the two detectives curious looks.

Giles waited until Team One was seated at the briefing table to begin.  “Let me start with Madame Locksley’s message,” he began, ignoring the confused looks between Team One’s members.  “She said to tell you, Sergeant Parker, that, ‘if, after this, you and your people wish to end your association with our world, there will be no repercussions.’ ”

“If after what?” Greg inquired, his dread growing.

The look on Giles’ face was that of a man who did _not_ want to do what he was about to do and the Auror was trembling, ever so slightly.  He turned towards Lance and said, “The Auror Division will be informing the public that you and your sister are Wild Mages.”

An instant later, every light bulb in the briefing room shattered.

* * * * *

Greg’s focus swung to his nephew as Lance started shaking, his magic rippling and lighting up the room, even without the now broken lights.  The Sergeant pulled Lance’s chin around, starting at the raw _terror_ in the teen’s face and the blank look in his eyes; Greg pulled his _nipote_ into a fierce hug, rubbing the young man’s back and murmuring reassurances in his ear.  When Lance kept shaking and started to hyperventilate, Greg made a snap decision and hauled him out of the briefing room and down the ramp to the locker room where the first aid kit and a few blankets were stored, just in case.

Once inside, Greg thrust Lance down on one of the benches and retrieved a blanket to drape around the teen’s shoulders.  “Breathe, Lance, breathe,” Greg ordered softly, pushing his nephew’s head down to keep the young man’s reaction from overwhelming him.  Lance gasped, pulling in air and coughing.  “That’s it, that’s it,” Greg whispered.  “Just keep breathing, you’re okay.  We’re going to get through this.”

Wet sapphire eyes rose and Lance managed to look like the little boy he’d been that morning, afraid and desperate for comfort.  Greg pulled his nephew close as the teen started to cry, great gasping cries that were a mix of sorrow, shame, and fear.  The Sergeant rubbed Lance’s back as he cried, wondering what in the world was wrong…

* * * * *

Ed glanced up at the broken light bulbs, then looked around at his teammates, both brows arching.  “Anyone get hit by glass?”

“I think his magic _vaporized_ it all,” Sam breathed, a hint of shock in his eyes.

The team leader nodded once, then pushed himself up and stalked around the table to Giles.  Without a qualm, Ed leaned in, letting just a bit of the fear and fury he hadn’t been able to express yet out.  “You want to explain what just happened?”

Giles swallowed hard, flinching from Ed’s angry stare.  The Auror looked down, unable to meet Ed’s gaze for long.  Haltingly, hesitatingly, he started to explain.  “You’ve seen how the wizarding world treats anyone not considered human.”

The constables traded startled looks, but settled back to listen attentively, though Ed made a point to stay where he was, all but looming over Onasi.

“Veela, house-elves, goblins, heck, even centaurs; they’re _all_ considered second-class citizens at _best_.  Non-human, dangerous; beasts to be controlled instead of respected as beings.  Werewolves are treated even worse than that; they’re actively shunned and some wizarding communities will even attempt to murder any suspected werewolves in their midst.”

Giles paused, pacing back and forth for a few moments.  “But none of that comes close to how Wild Mages are treated, _if_ they’re discovered.”  Shame gleamed in his eyes.  “I don’t know the history,” he admitted, “So I can’t tell you _why_ , but I’ll tell you what I _do_ know.”

Again, he paused, though this time it looked as if he was bracing himself.  “The last time a Wild Mage was identified was during Grindelwald’s War…what you call World War II…”

* * * * *

_The couple hurried through the night, fleeing the mysterious figures who’d destroyed their village, calling on the survivors to submit ‘for the Greater Good’.  All the other villagers had been captured by the attackers and the couple knew that if they, too, were captured, all their striving against the Fuhrer’s regime would have been for nothing._

_But for all of their determination to get away, they could not outrun the odd flying craft their attackers were using.  In short order, they were surrounded and cut off by the jeering figures dressed in old-fashioned robes.  The man pushed his precious wife behind him, defiant to the last even as the lead attacker laughed at him, aiming a carved stick at his chest. **“Do it,”** the man spat, **“We will not submit to your kind.”**_

**_“Then you will die,”_ ** _the figure announced, before uttering two words the man could not understand.  A jet of green light leapt from the stick and the man flinched from his end._

_Suddenly, the beam struck a barrier that had not been there before; a shimmering pale pink barrier that emitted a sense of protection and defiance of the mystery attackers. **“Enough,”** a female voice declared and, with a swirl of wind, a tall woman with her long hair pulled back from her face was in front of the couple.  **“You have caused enough death for one night, Seidel.  Leave these people alone.”**_

**_“Fuchs,”_ ** _the one she had named Seidel growled. **“You defy the orders of our leader?”**_

**_“Grindelwald may be_ your _leader, but he is not mine,”_** _Fuchs declared, tossing her head.  Without turning, she pulled a disc from her pocket and held it out to the couple. **“That will take you to safety, I promise.  And if you should find yourself in England, seek out my cousin Percival in Derbyshire and tell him I died with honor.”**_

**_“We will,_ ** _mein dame beschützer_ **(3)** _,” the man promised.  Then he and his wife reached out, taking the disc._

_Once they had a hold of it, the woman whispered, “Narnia bringt mich nach hause_ **(4)** _.”  The disc glowed softly and the couple were pulled away to safety.  They never saw their rescuer again._

* * * * *

“When the couple she saved reached England, they told their story to a British Squib and that Squib reported what he’d discovered to the Aurors.  England’s Department of Mysteries demanded that the Aurors locate the Wild Mage, dead or alive.”

“Did they?” Roy asked, dread lurking within his curiosity.

Giles nodded once.  “Yeah, they found her.  She’d been locked up like an _animal_ , fed a few scraps a day, and Grindelwald’s people almost tortured her to death, trying to get her to use her magic for them.  The Aurors brought her back to England and the Department of Mysteries took her for themselves.  No one ever found out what happened to her after that, but the stories are…legendary.”

No elaboration was needed; Giles’ expression said it all.  The Auror drew a deep, shuddering breath and sat down hard in one of the briefing room chairs.  After a minute of silence, he spoke again.  “Every Wild Mage ever tested has had a small amount of non-human blood – usually nymph or dryad.”

“So they’re treated like they aren’t human,” Jules concluded when Giles hesitated.

A heavy nod came from Onasi; Wordy spoke up from the other side of the table.  “That’s why you wanted that Healer to keep quiet, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Giles confirmed in a whisper.  “Only the old pureblood families know why Wild Mages are so feared.  Honestly, until that Healer _did_ the magical nature test, I wouldn’t have believed it.  Wild Mages are supposed to be extinct; the Wild Mage back in the 1940s wasn’t even a full Wild Mage or so I heard when I was growing up.”

The Auror’s gaze switched to Roy.  “Sorry, by the way, for getting you into trouble.  I’m still used to making all the decisions on my own and come what may.”

“Trouble?” Ed demanded before Roy could speak; the team leader glanced between the partners, his expression expectant.

Roy ran a hand through his hair.  “We got in trouble for not reporting Lance and Alanna to Madame Locksley.  Three week suspension.”

 “So what do we do?” Lou inquired, leaning forward in his chair and ignoring the brief sidetrack.  “How do we help the kids?”

“Keep them on this side,” Sam muttered.  When his teammates looked over at him, he shrugged.  “If I’m hearing Giles right, their status as ‘human’ just got yanked magic-side, but it _hasn’t_ been yanked on _our_ side of the fence.”  The sniper stood, pacing back and forth as he elaborated.  “Between the loss of their family’s political power in the stunt Lance had Potter pull in the Wizengamot and _today’s_ bombshell, it’s going to be open season on them magic-side.”

Wordy uttered a low hiss of dismay, feeling a sting of guilt, though Sam never even glanced in his direction as he spoke.  After all, it had been in protecting _him_ that Lance had sacrificed that political power.  But Sam’s second statement caught the brunet’s attention and he sat up with a disagreeing frown.  “Open season?  Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“No.”  Jules shook her head.  “Wordy, think about it this way: back in high school, if the popular kids fell off their pedestal, what happened to them?”

“Open season,” Spike muttered before Wordy could reply.  “We’re talking worse than what the _geeks_ usually get; I saw it happen once.”  He shuddered at the memory.

Giles spoke up once more, his expression full of anticipatory dread; whatever he was about to say was something he _knew_ none of his coworkers would like.  “There’s also the fact that they now have almost no rights.  The only crime that can be committed against a Wild Mage is suppressing their magic.  Beyond that,” the Auror half-choked, “Just about anything goes.”

The constables traded utterly dismayed looks.  “What if they fight back?  Defend themselves?” Ed questioned, his gaze serious and intent.

A helpless shrug.  “I don’t know,” Onasi admitted, slumping down further in his seat, “But if it came down to a ‘he said, she said’ sort of thing…they’d lose.”

The Auror’s gaze slipped to the floor and he shuddered.  “They’re going to be hated for what they are, for the magic they were _born_ with, and there’s no way to fix it.”  Sorrowful brown eyes came up, meeting Ed’s for the merest instant before Giles looked down again.  “If Parker wants to pull them out of school and the wizarding world, it wouldn’t be a half-bad idea.”  The wizard bit his lip and added, softly, “And if you lot decide this is the last straw and you don’t want to be involved in our world anymore, I-I really don’t blame you.”

 

[3] German for ‘my lady protector’

[4] German for ‘Narnia bring me home’


	3. Broken History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seeing as I've now had two reviewers fretting over a possible end to this series (and one was a guest reviewer), I thought I'd address the issue head on, hopefully without spoilers. First of all, I realize that it must seem like I'm backing Team One out of the wizarding world...and perhaps I am. That doesn't necessarily mean this series is over. Nor, in such an event, does that mean the _wizarding world_ is done with Team One. Furthermore, even if Team One leaves the wizarding world and never again darkens a wizard's door, canon has still been very much altered by Greg's _nipotes_ and all the subsequent adventures - that in itself could (and would) alter future events. While less interesting, my series could certainly still proceed.
> 
> If I've confused you all...good. Aside from reassuring my readers that this series will continue for a good long time, I have no intention of dropping any spoilers about where this twist might take us.
> 
> Second of all, given the wizarding world's established record of discrimination against anyone seen as _different_ , is this twist really out of left field? Giants, veela, goblins, werewolves, Squibs... _Muggleborns_. The wizarding world seems to spend half its time kicking down anyone who steps out of line or, indeed, anyone that might threaten the _status quo_. Is it so surprising that the elites would turn on 'their own'?
> 
> Now, all of that _said_ , don't give up on Team One or Greg's resourceful little brats so quickly. Since I've already said this to one reviewer, I'll say this to everyone: This is story number 32. I'm currently in the midst of story number 55. And that doesn't take my many and varied Side-Stories into account. I'm not going anywhere and neither is this series.
> 
> I hope that sets a few minds at ease; I also hope I haven't chased anyone off with this saucy author's note. So...without any further ado...
> 
> Enjoy...

The great, wracking sobs had stopped, but Lance didn’t seem interested in moving from his spot in his uncle’s arms; the usually brave and confident youth seemed to have evaporated in the wake of Auror Onasi’s announcement and Greg had yet to figure out _why_.  Softly, he asked, “Ready to talk about it, kiddo?”

The brunet head shook, but sapphire peeked up.  “Have to,” came the reluctant mutter.

Ah.  Lance’s reaction answered more than it didn’t; his _nipote_ still tended to be more than a bit leery of certain topics and Greg suspected those topics were ones the teen’s father had told him to keep quiet on or to keep to family only.  For a few moments, Greg searched for a way to broach the topic without frightening his nephew any more than he already had been; an observation from earlier came to the Sergeant’s aid.

“Does this have something to do with how Auror Simmons treated you after you healed my leg?”  Lou hadn’t been the only one to notice Auror Simmons’ behavior earlier, but Greg had chosen to let it go…until now.

“Prob’ly,” Lance mumbled.  “An’ prob’ly why he said ‘sorry’.”

Greg stiffened.  “He knew what was going to happen?” the Sergeant inquired in a dangerous tone.

One shoulder shrugged.  “I guess…I guess _I_ knew, too.  ‘Specially after Maria Smith figured out about my magic.”

Before Greg could press the young man for details, the locker room’s door was pushed open and a cautious Sam peeked around it.  “Sarge?”

Greg considered, then tilted his head, inviting the blond constable inside.  Sam stepped inside, his expression unreadable, though sympathy glinted in the depths of his blue eyes.  “What did Auror Onasi say?” Greg questioned.

Sam’s frame slumped, just a bit, and he looked just as reluctant as Auror Onasi had earlier, with a wary tension in his face that told Greg whatever Onasi had said, it was even worse than what the Sergeant was already imagining.  Parker drew in a breath, then ordered, “Sam, spit it out.”

Sam jerked, then gulped and blurted, “He said the wizarding world is gonna treat the kids worse than werewolves and that the _last_ Wild Mage they found ended up…”  The sniper trailed off, sucking in air, but he didn’t continue; Greg stared at his constable in mounting dread.

“Ended up getting experimented on,” Lance finished; both officers looked towards him, eyes wide with surprise and horror.  The young man looked down, then whispered, “She was my grandfather’s cousin; too distant for the Unspeakables to put the pieces together about _my_ family, but all Wild Mages are related.”

“All of them?” Greg questioned gently as Lance pulled up one leg and rested his chin on his knee.

Lance nodded, though he didn’t look up at either his uncle or Sam.  “Go far enough back and we’re really all the same family, Uncle Greg.”

Greg closed his eyes briefly at that, sorting through his options.  “Okay,” he decided.  “We’re going to go back to the briefing room and we can go from there.”

“You want me to tell everyone?” Lance asked, uncertainty in his expression and a tremble in his voice.

Parker tipped Lance’s head up, meeting his eyes calmly.  “Not if you don’t want to, Lance.  No matter _what_ , _mio nipote_ , you are still _my_ nephew and I will always put you and your sister first, understand?  I can protect you better if I know what I’m up against, but if that’s too much right now, that’s okay.”  Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw Sam nod firm agreement and felt a rush of gratitude for his teammates.

* * * * *

Jules studied the young man her Sergeant guided into the briefing room, wincing internally; gone was the confidence of only a scant hour earlier, the confidence of a young wizard who knew what he could do and how to do it.  Now Lance looked more like a whipped puppy, cringing even though he knew he was safe and afraid of what came next.

The young man peeked up at the lights, still broken and dark, and his expression turned rather sheepish.  He paused, glancing over his shoulder at his uncle and past him, to check the station; then the teen looked up again and raised one hand.  His eyes turned gold as he murmured a soft, “ _Gebétan glæsfæt_ **(5)**.”  The lights repaired themselves and flickered back on, one by one.

“Nice,” Spike called, throwing Lance an outrageous grin and two thumbs up; the teen ducked his head, but they all saw his all-too-brief smile.  Lou whacked Spike before the bomb tech could get even more outrageous.

Sarge offered up his own smile as he guided his nephew to the head of the table, but his eyes were dark and the room, despite the lights, seemed just as dark.  “Lance, whenever you’re ready,” he coached, keeping one hand on the teen’s shoulder.

Lance looked down, focusing on the table rather than his family.  “Sam said Auror Onasi told you about the Fox?”

“The fox?” Jules inquired, leaning forward in her chair; around her, her teammates looked just as confused.

The teen’s head came up and he gave Giles a curious look.  The Auror looked just as befuddled as the rest of the group and Lance smirked, just for an instant.  “Her nickname was the Chartreuse Fox; her enemies called her that because she evaded them for _years_ before they caught her and she’d leave a yellow rose as a calling card whenever she struck.”

“Who was she?” Giles asked, curiosity shining.  “Did your family know her before Grindelwald’s War?”

“I guess you could say that,” Lance replied, gaining a bit of strength in his voice.  “She was my grandfather’s cousin – and his best friend.  After the Aurors brought her to England, he used our family’s influence to find out what the Unspeakables did to her.”

* * * * *

_Percival Calvin frowned as Unspeakable Croaker led him through the Department of Mysteries.  “How deep are we going?”_

_Croaker glanced back at the powerful family Lord, his expression patient.  “We are dealing with a Wild Mage, Lord Calvin; such magic cannot safely be kept in our outer chambers.”_

_“She is still a living being,” Lord Calvin pointed out.  “Regardless of her nature, she_ chose _to rescue those two Muggles from Grindelwald’s ilk and their information concerning his army has been invaluable.”_

_“Be that as it may,” Croaker countered, “She is still a_ Wild Mage _with magic strong enough to block the Killing Curse, if the Muggles are to be believed.  We cannot risk Grindelwald retrieving such a powerful creature for his army.”_

_Percival’s frown deepened, but he forebode to argue further.  After a time, the two arrived in a cold, dank area inscribed with runes; Percival’s experience with runes allowed him to read them: they were designed to keep intruders out and suppress magic._

_“Unspeakable Croaker, Wild Mage or not, you know the law,” Percival growled.  “Suppressing a Wild Mage’s magic is_ illegal _.”_

_“She is only brought here when we must examine her,” Unspeakable Croaker explained serenely as he pushed the door open; Percival was hard put to keep from gasping at what he saw._

_His favorite cousin was almost unrecognizable; she wore rags, not robes, and every inch of her visible skin was crossed in cuts and bruises.  If she had been tended to after her rescue, there was no sign of it now and the once vibrant witch was worn down and broken.  Dull gray eyes lifted and focused on her visitors without a hint of interest.  Her long raven hair, once her pride and joy, hung limply from her head, matted, tangled, and just as dull as her eyes._

_It took an act of will to keep from betraying his horror and fury, but Percival concentrated on keeping his expression blank as he looked at Unspeakable Croaker; now he understood why his request had been approved, the Unspeakables were testing him.  “And what, pray tell, are you examining her for?” he inquired, letting not a wisp of his true feelings show._

_Unspeakable Croaker was just as calm, though Percival detected a hint of disappointment.  “We are studying the nature of her Wild Magic, in hopes that we might understand it and perhaps harness it.  It has been decades since last we had such an opportunity and there is much to do.  I trust your concerns have been satisfied, Lord Calvin?”_

_Percival glanced down at the runes outside his cousin’s cell.  “Your ‘opportunity’ will die on you if you suppress her magic like this,” he drawled.  “Even if you remove her from this environment on a regular basis, suppressing her magic is akin to_ poisoning _her.”_

_“And you know this, how?”_

_The look he gave the Unspeakable was disdainful.  “I am Lord of an Ancient and Noble Family, Unspeakable Croaker.  We have not just_ seen _history, we_ are _history.  A moment more, if you please, and I would like privacy.”_

_Silence hung, then Croaker bowed his head.  “As you wish, Lord Calvin.”_

_Percival approached his cousin, sorrow blazing in his eyes, but even now, he knew he was not truly alone.  In as soft a voice as he could, he murmured, “I’m sorry for what you’re going through.”_

_Gray eyes shifted to his and her head moved down in a weak nod.  For several moments, the two Wild Mages regarded each other as Percival allowed his helpless grief to show.  “Don’t…  Forget…” Fuchs whispered._

_“I will not,” Percival promised and then he left the room.  Less than three days later, Unspeakable Croaker informed the Calvin Lord that the Wild Mage was dead._

* * * * *

“Why _are_ wizards afraid of Wild Mages?” Lou asked, ignoring the looks on his teammates’ faces; oh, he was just as angry as they were, but if they all lost their objectivity, they ran the very real risk of losing both of their _nipotes_.

“The wandless magic,” Auror Onasi drawled.  “ _That’s_ what _I_ always heard…plus the fact that Wild Mages’ magic is stronger than ours.  Fuchs was able to stop the Killing Curse magically and _that’s_ supposed to be impossible.”

“He’s right,” Lance agreed softly.  “But that’s not the only reason.”  Lou sat up straight; he hadn’t _thought_ so.  While stronger magic was certainly something to be cautious of, the reaction Lance described seemed…too extreme…there _had_ to be a reason behind the mix of fear and ruthless exploitation.

“What’s the other reason?” Ed asked, his eyes intent.

Lance looked towards Onasi, his head tilting to the side.  “When you were growing up or in school, did you ever hear of Tristan Conté?”

The confused look on Onasi’s face said it all, as did his brief head shake.

“Who was he?” the Boss asked gently.

The teen’s gaze shifted to his uncle and he looked both sad and resigned.  “He’s the reason we’re feared, Uncle Greg.  Before him, we weren’t _accepted_ , per se, but wizards didn’t treat us like monsters if they found out about our magic.”  Lance shook his head.  “Wild Mages have always been…different…from other magic users, but at first it wasn’t so obvious.  We used Old Magic and everyone else used the Old Religion.  Then the Old Religion started to die out and Latin magic took its place.

“After the Netherworld – and Tolay – I started researching the family history and I found out the family used to share our family grimoire with anyone who asked.  We’d teach them how to use Old Magic, even though they could never use it like _we_ could.”

“So what changed?” Lou pressed.

Lance shrugged, looking down at the briefing table and running the tips of his fingers over the surface.  “I suppose the start was plain old jealousy…our magic is more powerful than Latin magic and even wizards who were taught the Old Magic started to get envious and suspicious of us.  But with magic still being hunted and persecuted, magicals had to band together and work together to survive, so that kept things from escalating…until Tristan Conté.”

The teen frowned thoughtfully, considering how to explain.  “See, ordinarily, if a Wild Mage goes bad, their own magic stops working properly.”

“It does?”

Lou’s brows hiked and he couldn’t blame his Sergeant for his startled, incredulous tone.  Who ever heard of a weapon or tool that could weaken and stop _itself_ if it was used for wrongdoing.  Auror Onasi was gaping at Lance, his eyes wide with shock, so Lou was fairly confident in assuming that even magic didn’t work like that.

Lance nodded.  “A Wild Mage can’t use Dark Magic,” he remarked quietly.  “If we try, our magic abandons us.  If a Wild Mage has enough _regular_ magic, then they can still do magic, but they can’t use their Wild Magic again until they stop trying to do Dark Magic.”

“So what went wrong?” Jules asked shrewdly.

Lou saw it, but Spike got there first.  “He said ‘Dark Magic’, Jules,” Spike pointed out.  “Lemme guess…this Tristan Conté was able to keep his Wild Magic working by avoiding shady spells.”

“Not even _my_ family knows for sure,” Lance admitted, “But that’s the theory we’ve always had.  See, in theory, Wild Magic knows when it’s being used for ill intent, but, well…”

“Theory, meet real world,” Wordy muttered.

The teen nodded agreement.  “That’s about the size of it.”  A helpless shrug.  “Tristan Conté ruined our reputation; before _him_ , we could at least claim that if a Wild Mage tried to go Dark, they wouldn’t get very far.  But _he_ not only went Dark, he came within a hair’s breadth of starting either the next Purge or creating a Dark Age – maybe both.”

“When was this?” Ed asked, frowning to himself.  “Can’t be recent or Giles here would’ve recognized the name.”

A wry, sad smile curved Lance’s jaw.  “It’s said that Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin found Tristan Conté’s lair and engaged him in a duel; by the time they were done, the lair and four nearby villages had been destroyed, but Conté was dead.  A few even claim that it was because of that battle that Slytherin turned on his fellow Hogwarts founders.”

Onasi allowed a low whistle.  “Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago…the grudge is _that_ old?”

The teenager offered up a sardonic grin and snagged a chair to drop into.  “Yeah, it’s _that_ old.  After Conté, there was no convincing the wizards that Wild Mages weren’t dangerous and the scholars of the era who remembered Camelot decided that we’d only _claimed_ to be teaching something different than the Old Religion.  No laws were passed against using the Old Religion or Old Magic, but anyone who _did_ use either one was considered a Wild Mage.”

“So they’d make themselves targets,” Wordy mused.  “That was the end of your family sharing the grimoire, wasn’t it.”

“Yes, it was,” Lance confirmed.  “And we stopped calling ourselves Wild Mages…instead it was just family magic.  But there was one other thing we did, right up until my Dad.”

Team One traded confused looks, but Giles sat up, ramrod straight.  “ _Pureblood_.  Your family made sure to marry _pureblood_ , but you _are_ pureblood, aren’t you?”

* * * * *

_“Mum, Dad, I’d, I’d like you to meet someone soon,” Artorius informed his parents nervously.  Although his parents had never arranged a marriage or even a courtship for him, he had no idea how they’d take the news he was bringing them._

_His Mum lit up.  “Oh, Artorius, you’ve found yourself a witch?”_

_The shy, hopeful, and even bashful smile from her son answered for him._

_“Who is she, son?” Percival Calvin inquired, just as eager as his wife for his son to marry and start giving them grandchildren to spoil.  “Is she someone you met at Hogwarts?”_

_Artorius shook his head, his heart dropping at his father’s automatic frown.  “Her name is Victoria; she’s from the United States.  I met her while I was traveling, this past summer.”_

_Alexandria beamed, but Percival’s expression turned worried and he did not speak again that evening._

“See, up till my Dad, our family married just like almost all the other British pureblood families.  With each other.  That’s why Dad had to work so hard to keep me ‘n’ ‘Lanna away from our so-called _relatives_.”

_“Son, I’d like to show you something.”_

_Artorius obediently trailed his father into the family library, wondering what had put such a severe look on his usually kind and supportive father’s face.  When his father pulled down his journal, Artorius started back.  “Dad, that’s_ yours _.”_

_“I know, son, but if you chose to marry this American witch, you need to understand the danger.”_

_“Danger?”_

_Percival Calvin closed his eyes, old pain stealing over his features.  “Son, any child of yours will be a Wild Mage, but if you marry outside of British society, then your children might inherit the full measure of our family gifts.”  The elder Calvin paged through his journal and handed it to his son.  “You never met my cousin Fuchs; she died before you were born, son, but her fate, her death, is the same one that awaits_ any _of our family if we are caught.”_

_Artorius paged through the entry and the ones that followed, a troubled look on his face that deepened with each entry.  “My children?” he breathed._

_“Yes,” Percival confirmed.  “The danger is not to you or I; we have hardly enough Wild Magic to make it worth the Department of Mysteries’ trouble, but_ your _children, especially if you marry this American, might be a different story.”_

_Artorius went back and read his father’s words more carefully; Percival stood in silence, letting his son think and decide.  When Artorius closed the diary with a fierce look in his eyes, Percival knew what his decision was, but still waited for his son to speak._

_“I will teach them, then,” Artorius announced, a sharp nod backing up his words.  “I will teach them to hide their magic from all but family and trust to the Lion for the rest.”_

* * * * *

Lance looked up from the briefing table, not even bothering to try for a smile.  “So now you know,” he remarked, pain and ache in his eyes.  “After Mom and Dad died, I talked ‘Lanna into never using our family magic again, ‘cause that was one of the first things Dad taught me.  To never share my Wild Magic with anyone ‘cept family.

“But then Uncle Greg talked us into using it our first Christmas here and he got our teachers to help us learn and none of them figured out _what_ they were teaching us.  Then ‘Lanna needed it and _I_ needed it and after that, we just kept using it; after awhile, I didn’t even think about it anymore, I just used my Wild Magic like I’d use Latin magic.”

Dead silence draped the room as Lance brought up both legs and hugged himself, a resigned look on his face and his eyes just a touch shiny.  “Guess I shoulda known it was too good to last, that I was pushing my – _our_ – luck, but I didn’t.”  A shiver made him tremble and he didn’t bother to wipe away the single tear that trickled down his cheek.  “I didn’t.”

 

[5] Old English for ‘repair glass.’  Website used is: http://www.oldenglishtranslator.co.uk/


	4. Broken Faith

Simmons shook his head as he inspected the addresses for Team One; trust Giles to have changed them all to fake addresses.  He admired the results even as he allowed a moment of grief for Giles’ little boy and his young wife; the Senior Auror knew it was for _their_ sake that Giles was so protective of Team One – and their families.

While he, personally, would _never_ be at ease with the Muggle Aurors _or_ the young Wild Mages, Senior Auror Nathanial Simmons owed them a debt.  For the sake of his daughter, Auror Wordsworth had endured the _Cruciatus_ and, if not for Giles’ intervention, would have _died_ to keep her safe.  And if not for two Wild Mages, young and innocent, the Muggles might never have become Aurors and that _scum_ Anderson might never have been caught – and Merlin only knew what _he_ would have done to Simmons’ precious little Amanda.

It was _wrong_ ; Simmons _knew_ it; that two _children_ should be forced to pay the debts of a monster dead for nearly a thousand years and exploited for their gifts by power hungry Unspeakables.  He wondered, briefly, if he’d have thought of any of this had he not _known_ the two personally…or if they hadn’t been underage.  The Auror rather doubted it.

Simmons tucked Team One’s files away again and left the Auror records archive, his expression thoughtful.  It had taken a little finagling, but he’d managed to delay the press release enough that by the time the news about two Wild Mages _living_ in Toronto broke, school was out for the day.  The Senior Auror was _reasonably_ sure that Alanna Calvin had been safely back in the Muggle world before the news broke, but he’d had a last minute concern that the Division of Mysteries could track her down another way, hence his quick trip to the records archive.  That left just _one_ loose end to tie up…

* * * * *

Shelley Wordsworth looked through the peephole in her front door at the man in the process of knocking…for the third or fourth time.  She didn’t recognize him and wasn’t about to open the door given his rather ridiculous outfit; he was dressed professionally, but he’d ruined the professional look by wearing a rather vivid shade of _purple_.

“Can I see?” Alanna asked from behind, making Shelley jump, just a little.

Shelley moved aside, letting Alanna at the peephole and was surprised when Alanna looked once, groaned, and reached for the lock.  Shelley intercepted the reach.  “Who is he?”

“Senior Auror Simmons,” Alanna replied flatly.  “He can act like a jerk, but he’s not about to hurt the family of a fellow Auror.”  So saying, Alanna unlocked the door and pulled it open before the Auror could knock again.  “Senior Auror Simmons, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Simmons glanced over his shoulder, a look on his face that made Shelley uncomfortable.  “May I come in?” he inquired politely.

Both Alanna and Shelley moved out of the way in silent invitation and the Auror ducked into the house, wary caution in his eyes.  “Has something happened?” Alanna questioned.

Dark eyes swept first to Alanna’s eyes, then to Shelley’s, uncertainty mixed with grim resolution shimmering in their depths.  “Miss Calvin, as of an hour ago, my division released information regarding you and your brother to the public.”

Alanna cocked her head to the side, innocently curious.  “What information?”

Guilt joined the other emotions in Simmons’ eyes and Shelley shifted; unsure of what she could do if the wizard turned hostile, but wanting to show she was on Alanna’s side, she rested one hand on Alanna’s shoulder.  With a deep breath, Auror Simmons replied, “That the two of you are Wild Mages.”

Violet eyes widened in shock; the shock swiftly morphed to fear.  “You…you…you _know_?”

“Yes.”  Simple, blunt, unvarnished truth.  Simmons’ dark eyes softened.  “And I know that you and your brother would _never_ use your magic as Tristan Conté did.”

Shelley wasn’t sure who this Conté person was supposed to be, but she moved between Simmons and her charge nonetheless, making it clear that any attempt to get to Alanna would have to go _through_ her.  “Why are you here?” Shelley demanded.

The Auror did not mince words.  “Giles may have changed all of Team One’s addresses to fake addresses, Miss Calvin, but there _is_ another way for the Division of Mysteries to find you and your brother.”

“The Trace,” Alanna breathed, eyes wide.

Simmons nodded once.  “I can break the Trace on you and make sure that no one can apply it again, but I’m afraid to make it look legal, I’ll also have to take your wand.”

Shelley opened her mouth to object, but Alanna moved around her first, already pulling her wand free from its holster.  She offered the wand to Auror Simmons without a qualm.  “Keep it,” she whispered as he took it.  “Dad only had to pay half-price because it was the only wand in Mr. Ollivander’s shop that worked and even that wand’s not a perfect fit for me.  Will you take the Trace off my brother, too?”

“Yes,” Auror Simmons promised as he drew his wand and aimed it at her.  Shelley resisted the urge to step between the two again.  After a breath, a wind seemed to swirl around Alanna, brushing her hair back, and then it was done; all three felt something shiver and break in the air.

Sorrowful, the Auror stepped back, sheathing his wand.  “I’m sorry, Miss Calvin.”

He left before either woman could reply and Shelley opened her arms to let Alanna cry against her chest.  The motherly woman freed one hand to close and lock the front door, then supported Alanna to the living room; she could find out what was wrong from Kevin later.

* * * * *

Senior Auror Simmons was just as brisk at SRU Headquarters as he’d been at the Wordsworth homestead; he broke the Trace on Lance and grimly confirmed that no charges, aside from one for the magical suppression, would be filed against Helen Smith in regard to Lance’s kidnapping.  Before leaving, Simmons quietly advised Sergeant Parker to keep his _nipotes_ out of the wizarding world until the initial outrage had burned itself out.

* * * * *

Once Simmons left, Lance retreated to the relative privacy of the men’s locker room, forcing himself to keep his tears locked up until the door slid shut behind him.  Even then, he kept the tears back until he’d reached the far corner of the locker room and curled up on a bench near two lockers that were empty and unused.  Then, alone and unnoticed, he let out a soft sniffle.

He been so _stupid_ ; he’d _promised_ to keep his sister safe and what did he do instead?  He’d risked _both_ their lives because he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of losing anyone else.  And not just once, either; oh, no, he’d used his magic practically every chance he got, thrilling in the feel of using his magic to _help_ people, to protect his family.  Even with the more destructive of the Old Magic spells, he’d planned and calculated, scheming and dreaming of the day when he could use them as an Auror, as a _cop_ , to help others and keep innocent people safe.

“If you’re beating yourself up, don’t.”

Lance yelped in shock, nearly losing his balance; he had to snatch at the bench to keep himself from falling sideways.  Wide blue eyes swiveled to an amused Sam Braddock.  “Wh-what are you doing here?”

Sam smirked as he straddled the bench and sat down.  “I work here,” he teased.  Lance flushed and hid his face.  The sniper watched the teen for a minute, then remarked, “Using and developing your magic isn’t something you should feel bad about.”

Lance kept his head down.  “I promised Dad I’d look after Alanna.”

“Ah.  The old, ‘I should’ve been better, faster, wiser’ routine, eh?”  The blond reached forward and smacked Lance’s shoulder.  “Kid, we’ve _all_ got days like that.  Learn from what you did wrong and move on.”

“Like _you_ do?”

Sam winced, because Lance had a point; growing up, failure hadn’t been an _option_ and he still overreacted when he made a mistake, big or small.  “No, _not_ like me,” Sam countered.  “Find your own Achilles heel; this one’s mine.”

Lance laughed, but it was a short, bitter laugh.  Shiny blue eyes came up and teen couldn’t quite stifle his sniff.  “Used to think, no matter what, Aslan would never let the worst happen.”

The sniper jerked, surprised that Lance was confiding in him; every member of Team One knew the Sarge’s kids had their favorites and he’d never been one of them.  Though the kids tried to treat all of their uncle’s teammates the same, Alanna could usually be found cozying up to Wordy or Jules, while Lance seemed to like Spike the best, with, again, Wordy close behind.

“And now?” Sam asked softly.

Another sniff.  “Now I’m not sure,” the teenager admitted.  “It’s stupid: ‘Lanna and I are safe, Uncle Greg’s safe, _you_ guys are safe, but…”

“But now the rug’s been yanked out from under you,” Sam offered up when Lance trailed off.  “You don’t know what’s going to happen now that everyone knows about your Wild Magic.”

“Something like that,” Lance agreed.  For a moment, it looked like he was going to clam up again, but then Sam saw the teen reach an internal breaking point.  “And, and…haven’t we been through _enough_?  It wasn’t enough to take my parents away, it wasn’t enough that my sister had an aneurysm, it isn’t enough that you guys risk your lives every day, _now_ He has to do _this_?”

Sam shifted back, whistling to himself.  Part of him wanted to agree with the young man, but there was a quiet whisper at the back of his mind that disagreed.  Afterwards, the sniper wasn’t quite sure why he opted to say what he did; he only knew that, somehow, he was talking to _both_ of them.  “So that’s it?  He gets you two through everything you’ve been through up to now and just because this time looks impossible to _you_ , you want to give up and walk away?”

Lance’s head popped up, an indignant look on his face, but Sam didn’t let him speak.

“If you believe Aslan’s in control, then you can’t just blame Him for what goes wrong, kid.  You have to blame Him for what goes _right_ , too.”  Sam blinked at his own reasoning, but kept plunging forward.  “Yeah, He took your parents away, but didn’t He give you Sarge?  You and ‘Lanna told us that _without_ Sarge, you’d have ended up with Death Eaters, but you _didn’t_.”

Sapphire jerked back and widened.

The sniper picked up speed as he went on.  “Do we know why Alanna had her aneurysm?  No, but it could’ve been one _heck_ of a lot worse.  Winnie looked up aneurysms the day Alanna collapsed and you know what?”  Lance shook his head mutely.  “Your sister had only a fifteen to thirty percent chance of coming out of the aneurysm without much brain damage.  She came out with just a shunt and you remember how she was right after she woke up?”

“Yeah.”  The single word was shaky and trembling.

“Lance, she could’ve had to relearn how to walk, talk, eat…she could’ve ended up with permanent physical problems, but she _didn’t_.”

“But why did it have to happen?”

Sam shook his head.  “I don’t know,” he murmured, meeting plaintive blue eyes.  “I wish I did, but I don’t.  Maybe someday we _will_ know, but we know _now_ that it could’ve been worse, but it wasn’t.”  The constable paused, letting his words sink in.  “Lemme ask you straight out, Lance.  How scared are you when something happens on the job and one of us has to call you and ‘Lanna?”

Lance’s gaze fell down to the bench.  “I wasn’t at first,” he confided.  “Even right after Mom and Dad died, I wasn’t, ‘cause I thought Uncle Greg was behind the front lines.”  The teen grimaced, but Sam nodded, showing he understood.  “Even after Lou almost died, even after the Netherworld, I wasn’t scared.”

“What changed?  Was it when Boss got snatched?”

Slowly, Lance shook his head.  Without looking up, he said, “It was when Uncle Greg came home with two bullet wounds.”

Sam nearly swore; he remembered that day and how close his Sergeant had come to not surviving.  And now that he thought about it, the kids hadn’t found out until their uncle had walked in the door that night; the sniper cringed as he imagined their reaction.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Not your fault,” Lance mumbled.

“No, it is our fault,” Sam disagreed.  “One of us should’ve called you and told you what happened.”  The blond sniper let his eyes shift up, over Lance’s shoulder to the stocky man who’d snuck in partway through their conversation.  “I’m sorry we didn’t.”

“Inches and seconds,” the new arrival remarked, smiling sadly as Lance jumped again and whirled on the bench to look up.

“Huh?”  Both Lance and Sam gave the man puzzled looks, though Sam cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out where his boss was going.

Greg Parker crouched next to the bench, a sad understanding on his face as he regarded his nephew.  “I was seconds from whatever Tolay and Morgana Le Fay were planning, when all of _you_ arrived, but I’m still here.  The bullet that day came within inches of the back of my head, _but I’m still here_.”

It was Sam’s turn to sport wide eyes; he’d never looked at either situation that way, but once his Sergeant said it, he couldn’t seem to look at them any _other_ way, like the key to a visual illusion slotting into place.

But Parker wasn’t done.  “At some point, _mio nipote_ , it stops being chance.  It stops being ‘just lucky’ or beating long odds.  Because what are the odds that I’d have a wizard for a nephew, who just _happens_ to be able to get one of my constables safely off a land mine no one, not even Spike, could disarm?”

Sam watched as his boss reached out and wiped a tear off Lance’s cheek.  “What are the odds that Roy and Giles would be the Guns ‘n’ Gangs detectives sent to the airport _right_ when _you_ were there?  I think we both know the answer, don’t we, _mio nipote_.”

Silence fell and Sam was grateful for it.  His boss was right; this wasn’t chance or lucky happenstance…things had gone _just_ right too many times for that.  Too many times, they’d been right on the edge of tragedy, only to be snatched back to safety at the last second; heck, he and Spike had _fallen_ off that edge and they were both still alive…

If it had been a card game, Sam would’ve been yelling, ‘Rigged!’ at the top of his lungs and hopping mad at the dealer.  As things stood _now_ , though, he still thought the ‘game’ was rigged, but instead of being mad at the dealer, he was in awe…and feeling very, very small; why did he and his teammates matter to Someone who could ‘play’ the ‘odds’ like this?

The silence was broken by a soft, plaintive whisper.  “It hurts.”

The Sarge lurched back to a standing position and pulled his nephew up and close.  “I know,” he whispered back.  “But you know what?  We’re going to figure this out and we’re going to be okay, I promise.”  Brown eyes glistened.  “We’re going to make mistakes and it’s going to be hard, but we’re in this together…all of us.”

“Promise?”

Sam stepped forward, letting one hand fall on the teen’s shoulder.  “We promise,” he replied for his boss and his teammates.

The Sarge suddenly smiled and added, so softly that Sam almost couldn’t hear.  “I’ve got your back, Lance, I promise.  Until the stars go dim.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Trace, while part of _Harry Potter_ canon, is a bit confusing. I've seen fanfic authors that have the Trace on underage wands, easily defeated by either using an adult's wand or breaking the spell on the underage wand in question. Other authors postulate that the Ministry of Magic maintains monitoring wards around Muggleborn homes or Muggle areas, to watch for underage magic use or breaches of the Statute of Secrecy.
> 
> The canon Trace is actually far closer to the monitoring ward theory than the wand theory. According to the _Harry Potter_ wiki, it is placed on underage wizards when they begin formal schooling and remains in place until a wizard's seventeenth birthday. At that point it breaks and _cannot_ be reestablished, no matter what.
> 
> The Trace of the Magical Flashpoint 'verse is, by and large, as close to canon as possible, but does include a theory I've run across, which is that the Trace can _only_ track _wanded_ magic. Wandless magic is considered to be either accidental magic or isn't registered by the Trace at all.
> 
> I hope that makes sense, but if it doesn't, just ask and I'll be happy to explain further…just be prepared for a long explanation, complete with examples. Get me on a topic I like or know quite a bit about and I can talk…well, not for _hours_ , but I think ya'll get the idea.
> 
> One final note: I know that Sam told Lance that they didn't know what good would come out of Alanna's aneurysm. That's because Alanna hasn't, at this point, had any of the follow up doctor appointments that we saw in the last chapter of "In the Paws of the Lion". In reality, her follow up appointments are set some time after Fault Lines (03x13) and Personal Effects (04x01), but I put them in "In the Paws of the Lion" because they were part of _that_ story.


	5. Broken Wand

Merlin Emrys shook his head to himself as he listened to the hysterical wailing and gnashing of teeth on the Wizard Wireless.  Honestly!  Reveal to the public that two _children_ possessed rare, powerful magic and everyone promptly lost their heads, screeching at octaves that would’ve impressed _Morgana_ and demanding that said children be immediately taken into custody – as if the two young Wild Mages were somehow a grave, dire _threat_.  Stuff and nonsense!

Grumbling under his breath, Merlin waved his hand, summoning his Sidhe staff and inspecting himself in the mirror.  Dissatisfied with the image he presented, the warlock stalked to his closet and located a deep blue cloak given to him by Guinevere after Arthur’s death.  He swirled it on and stalked back to the mirror, giving his reflection the same glare he wanted to give to the _clotpole_ who’d exposed the young Wild Mages to a living hell.  Satisfied, he nodded to his reflection and his eyes glowed gold; the staff became far more plain and his attire shifted to become more…ordinary.

Done with his preparations, Merlin strode out his front door, tossing a casual locking spell in his wake before he vanished in a flurry of wind.

* * * * *

In the center of the briefing room, wind whipped for a moment and Team One reacted at once, drawing their weapons and closing ranks.  In the center of the brief windstorm, a man appeared, smiling and leaning on a plain wooden staff; his smile grew at the sight of Team One’s response.

“Good afternoon, Sir Knights,” the man greeted, unphased by Team One’s glares as they slid their weapons away.  “Might I impose on you and your Sergeant’s time?”

“Who the heck are you?” Roy burst out, wide-eyed and unnerved by magic he’d never seen before.

The new arrival swept a bow in the detective’s direction.  “I am Merlin Emrys, young man.”

Roy bristled, but Giles nearly choked at the man’s name.  “Merlin’s _beard_ , _you’re_ Merlin?”

Merlin sighed, rapping his staff on the ground and grumbling, “You use an aging spell a few times and next thing you know, everyone’s swearing by a beard you’ve never _actually_ had.”  Team One snickered.  “Yes, yes, it’s very funny for _you_ lot,” the warlock complained, though his eyes danced ever so briefly with his own amusement.  “Now,” he tapped his staff against the floor again as his expression turned serious, “to business.”

For a moment, Giles was confused; then he spotted Heir Calvin leading his uncle and Braddock into the briefing room.  The Auror felt a chill run up his spine as he realized Heir Calvin had been able to sense Merlin’s arrival.

“Lord Emrys,” Heir Calvin greeted soberly.  “I bid you welcome.”

The ancient warlock smiled at the young man.  “I thank you, Lancelot.”  He sobered.  “I am sorry for what occurred this afternoon, young one.”

Heir Calvin gave his visitor a brave smile.  “Not much anyone can do about it now, Lord Emrys.  Just have to get through this.”

Giles watched as Sergeant Parker rested a hand on his nephew’s shoulder and took over.  “Is there something we can help you with, sir, or did you just come to support _mio nipote_?”

Merlin fingered his staff, a slow smile reappearing.  “ ‘Tis not what _you_ can help me with, Sergeant Parker, but what _I_ can help you with.”  The warlock thumped his staff down, dismissing the illusion on it and smirking at the startled looks he got from the two brunet detective Aurors.  “I have known for some time that young Lancelot and Alanna didn’t have matching wands, but I wished to wait until their seventeenth birthdays to make my offer.  Given recent events, however, waiting until their majority would be a grave disservice to them.”

“What offer?” The tall, suspicious Ed Lane inquired.

“Why, to craft new wands for them,” Merlin replied, leaning on his staff and allowing sheer mischief to dance in his eyes.  “While no wand ever crafted has been – or will be – powerful enough to channel the Old Religion, to ignore the advantages of Latin magic is a foolhardy mistake and I will not make it.”

Lancelot’s gaze was uncertain and nervous; it took the youth several moments to muster his reply.  Meeting Merlin’s eyes, he said, “Lord Emrys, while I appreciate your offer more than you know, my sister and I use Old Magic, not the Old Religion.”

Merlin let the declaration hang for a second or two, then he chuckled, a full, rich sound that rippled out.  “I know,” he replied, letting his Sidhe staff come across his chest to rest on one arm.  “I have always known,” he added.  Shrewdly, he remarked, “You think that because you wield Old Magic instead of the Old Religion, I will turn my back on you, just as those _fools_ in the wizarding world have.”

Lancelot’s gaze fell; the action itself enough to confirm Merlin’s words.

“You forget, young one,” Merlin chided, “I spent all of my childhood hiding my magic for fear of being executed and never told any of my friends in Camelot about my magic; if they found out, it was because they happened to be looking at _just_ the right time or because I foolishly made my intervention too obvious to hide.”

The warlock ignored the stunned expression on Auror Onasi’s face.  “I know fear and I know the isolation of hiding your very _self_ from those you care about; be grateful that you will never have to live as I did, Lancelot.”  Merlin paused, letting his words sink in, then continued, “I will _never_ turn on a fellow magic-user simply because their magic or their beliefs are different from my own.”

Merlin tilted his head to the side as one of the constables hesitantly asked, “Wait…you were planning to make Lance a new wand _before_ his old wand was broken?  Why?”

The warlock felt his eyes widen in surprise that Lancelot’s wand had been broken, but, at the look on Lancelot’s face, forebode to inquire.  Instead, he cleared his throat and replied, “For those of us who practice the Old Religion – or the Old Magic – a wand is, as I said, insufficient for our needs.  As powerful as a properly crafted and suited wand may be with Latin magic, for a wand to channel the Old Religion would be akin to forcing a river’s might through a water pipe; the river would shatter the water pipe in moments.

“However, Latin magic was _developed_ , in large part, by sorcerers who were too magically weak to use many Old Religion spells.  As part of that development, _they_ invented the first wands and so Latin magic does tend to be dependent on wand usage.  Those wizards who are able to master a wandless spell or two with Latin magic are – rightly – considered to be both talented and powerful.  For myself, I have used the Old Religion all my life; I rarely use Latin magic and when I do, I am powerful enough to cast it without a wand.”

Merlin cleared his throat; he had grown unused to speaking for long stretches of time and was a touch chagrined to realize that he had, all too many times over the centuries, shut himself away from humanity – to his detriment.  As he mused on his newfound realization, he was surprised to find that the female constable had taken the opportunity to vanish and reappear with a bottle of water; one that she brought to him with a tiny smile.  “Thank you, Dame Knight,” he murmured, taking the water gratefully.

After a few swallows, he returned his attention to young Lancelot, still wary, but less so than before.  “For you, young man,” he declared with a deliberate old man croak and a mock waggle of his water bottle, drawing the expected and hoped for tiny grin, “You have trained to use _both_ your native magic and Latin magic, shifting between them at need; for _you_ , a proper wand is necessary and, indeed, essential.”

Young sapphire met old sapphire for several seconds, then Lancelot inclined his head.  “Thank you, Lord Emrys.”

Merlin beamed at Lancelot’s acceptance of his offer and bowed to the young Wild Mage.  “When I have finished, I will return,” he promised, wind already whipping around his form.  “Aslan Bless, young one.”

* * * * *

Merlin was not overly surprised when he arrived in the lands that bordered Narnia and found a faun waiting for him.  “Greetings, noble faun,” Merlin murmured, giving the faun a respectful head tilt.

“Good day to you, Merlin Emrys,” the faun replied, returning the slight bow.  “I am Tumnus, advisor to Queen Lucy; I bid you welcome to Narnia.  Their Majesties have been expecting you.”

The warlock smiled to himself as he fell into step next to the faun.  “They are aware, then, of recent events?”

“Aye,” Tumnus agreed, “Queen Lucy was on the cusp of sending a detachment to rescue her young cousin from Helen Smith’s unjust imprisonment when Aurors Lane and Onasi intervened.  Both she and Queen Susan are still fuming over Lancelot’s broken wand and what they see as the Canadian Auror Division’s betrayal.”

“I confess,” Merlin remarked, “I cannot disagree with them on _that_ point.  To expose two innocent children to the nonexistent mercy of a mob is hardly the act of a _responsible_ government.  It smacks of the same ‘I was only following orders’ mentality that so often leads to horrors and atrocities of all kinds.”  The warlock tapped his staff against the ground thoughtfully as they walked.  “Are Their Majesties aware of my purpose in coming?”

Tumnus inclined his head.  “Already two dryads have offered up branches for the effort,” he began, smiling to himself, “And a gryphon and a phoenix appeared a day ago to pledge their finest tail feathers to your task.”  The faun paused, considering his next words.  “There is one other matter, however.”

“Say on,” Merlin invited when the faun did not continue.

“A group of dwarves have come to Cair Paravel with a small fortune in mithril; they wish to speak to you as soon as may be about what they refer to as a ‘matter of great import’.”

Merlin frowned at that, turning the information over in his mind.  “I will speak to them, then, before I begin,” he decided.

* * * * *

At one point in his long life, Merlin had arranged to become an apprentice to one of the Ollivander clan, studying wand-making and comparing wandcraft with the Old Religion’s art of staff creation.  Despite the latter’s complexity and utter tediousness, Merlin had come away from his apprenticeship with the firm belief that the staffs of the Old Religion were far superior to ‘modern’ wands.  At the time, he had vowed to never create another wand, but the Lion’s ways were not his ways and He had quite the sense of humor.

And so, Merlin found himself doing precisely what he’d promised he’d never do again…and worse, he was doing so _cheerfully_.  The warlock hummed an ancient song as he whittled and carved, smiling as the first wand emerged from its branch under his hands.  The center of the branch was already hollow, courtesy of the dryad who’d donated it, so once Merlin was satisfied with the wand’s shape, he turned to the gryphon feather and laid it beside the redwood branch.  The warlock laid one hand on the new wand and one on the feather and let his eyes blaze gold; his magic understood without words what was needed.  When the gold faded, the feather was inside the wand and securely nestled.

As Merlin picked up the wand to add a few final details, he ran his hands over his creation.  The wand was simple, but elegant; the handle was smooth and designed to slip easily into a wizard’s hand.  The slight bulge in the handle would nestle into its owner’s palm and the handle narrowed up to and through three black rings; two more black rings widened into the rest of the wand.  Right above the handle, the wand made two twists, then smoothed out and rose to a fine point.

The magic Merlin used wound through the wand, smoothing the wood as if he’d run a fine grain of sandpaper over it and bringing out the redwood’s rich hues.  The warlock, with exquisite care, carved a lion rampant right above the wand’s handle and picked up one of the dwarves’ gifts.  A murmur of power and a steady hand produced a mithril lion rampant with an even tinier leafy crown above it, marking the wand as one belonging to a Narnian.  Merlin used his magic to finish polishing the wand and cement the wand’s power, then twirled the wand in his hands, inspecting it for any flaws or imperfections.  Finding none, Merlin set the wand aside and rose to retrieve his materials for the next wand.

The rowan was harder to carve than the redwood had been, but Merlin persisted, patiently drawing the new wand out of the wooden branch.  In a quiet nod to the Narnian origins of the wand’s future owner, Merlin sculpted ivy vines along the length of the wand, only breaking off the vines as he reached the wand’s handle.  The wand’s handle was short and smooth, starting with a ring to mark the transition between shaft and handle and curving inwards for a half an inch before curving outwards again into another ring that formed the base of the wand’s acorn-style pommel.

With the bulk of the carving done, Merlin set the wand down on his borrowed workbench and rose to stretch and retrieve both the phoenix feather and the second of the dwarves’ gifts.  The warlock settled back onto his chair, placing the feather next to the wand, and resting his hands on both feather and wand; again, his eyes blazed gold, placing the feather inside the wand, bringing out the rowan’s natural pale beauty, and smoothing the wand’s surface to a fine polish.  With the magic done, Merlin inspected the wand and found a place right above the handle for the mithril lion rampant and its small crown of leaves.

Once the mithril was in place, Merlin extended his power through the wand, examining his creation for any flaws or imperfections.  One spot glowed in his vision and he twirled the wand, frowning as he spotted a ridge of wood that he’d missed in the initial carve.  Briskly, he attended to the ridge, smoothing it out to match the vines he’d already carved.  A second inspection produced the desired results: a finished wand that would serve its owner well.  Merlin nodded to himself and set the wand down; they would need proper boxes, but Their Majesties had requested that he allow them to deal with that matter.  For now, he was done.

* * * * *

Merlin presented the two new wands to the Kings and Queens of Narnia, restraining the urge to beam as his work was inspected and praised.  Two boxes, already crafted in a distinctly Narnian style, awaited the wands and once the wands had passed muster, they were carefully tucked in the boxes and returned to Merlin’s care.

One of the dwarves Merlin had spoken to sat in a chair off to the side, thoughtfully tugging on his beard as the hall’s chatter died down.  He rose to his feet, giving the Narnian rulers a deep bow of respect before turning to Merlin and offering him a shallower, but just as respectful bow.  “You will take our gift to the young Heir?” he queried in a dwarf’s typical deep voice, his dark eyes, framed by his dark auburn bushy beard and brows, hopeful.

“I will,” Merlin confirmed, pulling a corner of the dwarven box out far enough to see.  “Is there any message you would like me to convey along with your gift, Sir Dwarf?”

The dwarf gave a harrumph, twisting one of his beard’s thick braids as he thought.  At last, he shook his head.  “He will discover its purpose in good time,” the dwarf rumbled.

Though curious, Merlin did not press the dwarf for details.  Instead he thanked the rulers of Narnia for their help and for allowing him to craft the wands within Cair Paravel itself.  Then he departed, though he did _not_ immediately return to the Police Strategic Response Unit’s headquarters.  Oh, no…he had one last stop to make…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, I'm no artist and I don't have the talent some have for inventing designs and such out of thin air. So both of the new wands are based on wands I found online. Both were designed by the same artist and can be viewed on a site called Deviantart. The artist goes by the screen name PraeclarusWands. For Lance, I chose wand 62 (Handmade Wand SB-651d) and for Alanna, I chose wand 106 (Handmade Wand TW-485x). Full credit for the wands goes to this very gifted artist and woodcarver.


	6. Broken Jesses

Merlin appeared in the Auror Division’s holding area in a swirl of wind that went totally unnoticed by the guards on duty, just as the ancient warlock had intended.  The wands he’d crafted in Narnia, along with the dwarves’ gift for young Lancelot, were safely tucked away in his cloak, ready and waiting for their new owners.  But the warlock’s purpose _here_ was solemn, serious, and critical if Lancelot and his family were to have any peace.  The Sidhe staff tapped against the ground as he walked forwards, towards two side-by-side occupied cells.  Such was Merlin’s power that only the two sisters in the cells were aware of his presence; even the other prisoners were oblivious to the one-time Court Sorcerer’s arrival and growing fury.

Maria Smith offered the warlock a deep, respectful bow, recognizing his great power, if not his identity; Merlin did not return the courtesy.  Helen Smith, however, examined him and almost immediately found him wanting; Merlin was not surprised… _this_ one would only be satisfied when the object of her obsession was once more within her grasp.  Even then, Merlin knew, she would not be satisfied, for Lancelot could no more _become_ young Daniel Smith than he could give up the magic he had been born with.

“So,” Merlin drawled, leaning on his staff and giving both witches a look of pure contempt, “You two are at the heart of young Lancelot and Alanna’s recent troubles; as narrow-minded as you purebloods have become in the last few centuries, I cannot say that I am surprised by this turn of events.”

“Who are you?” Helen demanded sharply, pressing against the bars of her cell.  “Are you one of the blood traitors who keeps Daniel from me?”

Merlin laughed aloud, openly sneering at the captive witches.  “What kind of question is _that_?  I am who I am and I am who I was and I am who I will always be.”

“That’s no answer,” Helen hissed.

A snort, coupled with a disdainful glance.  “What other answer is there?  It’s the only answer worth giving.”

 “Impossible!” Maria screeched.  “Merlin lived during the time of Camelot and _everyone_ knows he was ancient, even _then_.”

A rough chuckle arose.  Leaning on his staff, Merlin invoked his aging spell with no more than a brief glow of his eyes.  Once he’d aged, he croaked, “Everyone this, everyone that; who is this ‘everyone’ that seems to know so much and yet knows nothing at all?”  He rapped his staff against the bars of Helen’s cell, smirking when she yelped and jumped back.  “My dears, we are speaking of _magic_ and where there is _magic_ , there is very little that is _truly_ impossible, merely highly _improbable_.”

He let the words hang a moment, then turned towards Maria Smith, scowling heavily.  “It was very ill done of you, to permit your sister to steal a young man from his loving family and prolong their needless suffering.”  When Maria opened her mouth to argue, Merlin slammed his staff down, snapping, “Be silent!”  The witch cowered from his rage.  “I imagine you intend to argue that a Wild Mage is unworthy of protection; _rot_ , I say!  He is a human being like any other, is he not?  He has dreams and fears just as _you_ do, hopes and failures just as you have; how is _he_ any different from your late nephew?”

“He’s a _freak_ of nature,” Maria Smith spat, only to reel as Merlin seemed to swell with his rage.

“So am I,” Merlin hissed, thumping his staff again to give the sentence emphasis.  “By _your_ reck, my mother should have drowned me at birth for having magic so _unlike_ any magic seen before or since.”  The warlock scowled heavily.  “By what right do _you_ judge who is worthy of life or death?  By right of your heritage?  By _that_ count, young Lancelot is the winner, by far; his line is as old as Camelot…perhaps even older.”

Maria wilted, but a spark of defiance glinted in her eyes; Merlin ignored it.  He had not come to _persuade_ the sisters, but to warn them of their folly and ensure they never came near Sir Lancelot’s descendants again.  Maria, truly, had been the _easy_ one to deal with and now the warlock eyed the far harder challenge: Helen Smith.

Despite his anger, Merlin gentled his words and voice as he spoke to Helen.  “Truly, I am sorry for your loss, child, but such things are the Lion’s way of reminding us that _this_ world is finite; _we_ are not meant for this world, shallow and fleeting, but for another…His world, _His_ Country.”

The warlock tapped his staff thoughtfully.  “Saving young Lancelot was a fine thing, a noble deed, but your actions afterwards were far from noble.  What gave you the impression that you could, with impunity, keep a boy from his loving family indefinitely?  Why did you imagine that you could suppress his power without consequences and take him from these shores unnoticed?  I assure you, you were _far_ from unobserved; had the Aurors not found you, others _would_ have, child.”

“I am not a child,” Helen objected.  “And Daniel is _my_ son; I have _every_ right to keep him close and protect him from the Muggle _scum_ who dared to take him from me.”

“Your son is dead,” Merlin replied flatly.  “Aslan called him home three years ago, just as He called your husband home, child.  If you do not change your ways, you will never see either one of your loved ones again.”  He stopped to let his warning sink in, then added, “And I call you ‘child’ because that is how you’ve behaved.  You play the part of a spoiled child deprived of her favorite doll; like any other spoiled child, you seek to take _another’s_ favorite doll, proclaiming it your own in the process.”

“You call my _son_ a doll?”

“You certainly treated him as such, both before his death and afterwards,” Merlin observed drily.  “And as soon as you found another with similar looks, you declared him _yours_ and treated him like your own personal pet; ignoring and suppressing anything that went against your fantasy.”  The warlock’s tone hardened.  “I will _not_ permit you to interfere in young Lancelot’s life any further.”

“You cannot keep me from my son!” Helen shrieked.

Merlin’s staff slammed against the ground again and the warlock twirled it to point at Helen.  “Lancelot Calvin is not your son, Helen Smith, and I will have your promise to leave him alone or I will invoke _my_ code at your trial!  Regardless of how so-called modern wizarding law views Wild Mages, _my_ code views all equally, regardless of background; magical or not counts for nothing, just as Old Magic versus Latin Magic matters not!”  The warlock smiled viciously.  “Should you be charged under the Myrrdin Code, the charges for kidnapping, snapping a minor’s wand, and attempted line theft that were dropped after today’s press conference _will_ return and you will never see the light of day again.

“So I ask you directly: will you stay away from Lancelot and his family or not?”

The enraged witch let out a wail of outrage and anguish.  “No, I won’t let you keep me from my son!”  She withdrew, weeping, but Merlin had no sympathy for her plight.  “Daniel, Daniel, I’m coming for you, baby,” she whispered to herself, her eyes darting around for an escape.

“You would protect two Wild Mages, after what their kind has done?” Maria hissed from the next cell.

Merlin regarded her coldly.  “Tristan Conté violated both the law and the _spirit_ of his magic, but he paid for his crimes centuries ago; to hold two children to account for his actions is an outrage in itself.  Anyone who does so is _worse_ than Conté in my eyes; he, at least, was honest enough to accept the consequences of his decisions and not blame others for his own deeds.”  He stepped back from the cells and turned to go.  Over his shoulder, he called, “I shall see you at your trials, Sisters Smith.”  Then wind whipped around him and he was gone.

* * * * *

Spike, attempting to alleviate all the gloom and doom, proposed finally having a certain wizard’s birthday party, but the suggestion fell flat in the face of the day’s events.  It fell even flatter when Lance hesitantly pointed out that, _this time_ , there was really no way to explain what had happened to Clark and Dean without telling them about magic; given how much Lance was cringing at his own comment, Greg made an executive decision to postpone the party – and all accompanying explanations – for another day.  There were limits to how much even the most stubborn and resilient individuals could handle at once and Greg was fairly sure they were getting close to – if not past – Lance’s limits.

In the meantime, Greg – with his _nipote_ trailing along behind – met with Team Three’s Sergeant to discuss how things were going to work going forward.  Another issue the Sergeant hadn’t had time to deal with was the fact that the Auror Division had essentially thrown his charges to the wolves; Parker wasn’t sure he was _comfortable_ with continuing to work with Aurors who might, in the future, be ordered to arrest his _nipotes_ , but, as with his nephew’s party, Greg decided to deal with it later – _much_ later.

Before Greg could speak, the other sergeant tossed him a grin and remarked, “I guess this magic thing explains all those classified calls, Parker.”

Greg volleyed a smile of his own back.  “I guess it does,” he agreed.  Then he sobered.  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked directly.  “It won’t be easy and on the other side of the line, you and your team are going to be in the minority.”

“And treated like it,” the other concluded thoughtfully; his cheerfulness faded and he sighed as Greg inclined his head.  “What about you?  Has it been worth it for you?”

Instead of answering at once, Greg turned just enough that his counterpart could look past him to the young man who’d wandered off course to Winnie’s desk and now stood sheepishly apologizing for suddenly showing up as a gryphlet and then just as quickly running off.  With his eyes on his nephew, Greg remarked, “I won’t lie, there are parts of the wizarding world I could do without, but the same could be said about _our_ world, too.”

The Sergeant’s eyes warmed.  “The day _I_ found out, that first day, I was afraid I’d have to break my team’s trust and lie to them about _mio nipotes_.”  Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw the other man’s startled snap to attention.  “And I did,” Greg admitted softly, “But then Wordy found out and between him and the kids, they figured out a way to save a room full of hostages; after the call, I’m not sure my team even realized I’d lied to them…if they did, they didn’t say anything to me.  Of course, the debriefing was a bit…interrupted; I’m sure you’ve caught on by now that wizards prefer to stay hidden.”

The other sergeant nodded as Greg swiveled back towards him.  “Forget the magic; they’re just like us,” Greg counseled.  “No better, no worse than any other human beings.”  Mischief entered the Sergeant’s gaze.  “If you and your team do this, get ready for one wild ride; that much I can _guarantee_.”

“But will it be worth it?” the other officer pressed.

“I can’t answer that,” Greg replied, his eyes as serious as could be.  “It’s worth it for me, but I have a stake in that world; so far, my team thinks it’s worth it, but a couple of them have their own stakes in that world, too.”  Parker made a small gesture towards Team Three.  “You, your team…you have to make your own call on this one; I can’t make it for you.”

Before Greg could continue, a whip and whistle of wind heralded the appearance of a young-looking black haired man with big ears, blue eyes, and a playful smile.  The staff in his hand, topped by a blue gem, tapped against the ground lightly as the man chuckled at Team Three’s surprised expressions.  Then the new arrival strode over to Greg and Team Three’s Sergeant, pulling Greg’s nephew in his wake.  “Sergeant Parker,” the man greeted, amusement dancing in his eyes as he leaned on his staff and gave Team Three’s Sergeant a quick wink.

Greg returned the greeting with a sober, “Mr. Emrys.”

“ ‘Mister’,” Merlin mused, “I like it, Sergeant.  Much better than all the pretension and formality…no offense, young Lancelot.”

Lance cocked his head to the side.  “None taken…if you call me ‘Lance’.”

Greg stifled his laughter as a caught off-guard Merlin whipped to the side, staring at the calm expression on Lance’s face; the negotiator was impressed that Lance was able to hold his expression steady even as Merlin gawped at him.  After a moment, Merlin allowed a low laugh and tapped his staff again.  “Done,” he agreed before turning back to the two adults.  “Sergeant, is young _Lance_ to have his _ġebyrddæġ_ _dægweorþung_ now?”

Both officers traded confused looks, but Lance snickered.  “I think my birthday party got canceled,” he informed the warlock.

“No, it did not,” Greg corrected firmly, “Just postponed.”

“Clark’s gonna freak when he finds out about magic,” Lance countered flatly and Greg winced; Clark was more like his father than either wanted to admit and if it had taken three years for _him_ to come clean to Eddie about magic, Eddie would’ve hit the roof – and stayed there.  “And I’ve got no idea how _Dean’s_ going to react, but he might see it as just another thing _you_ lied to him about, even though you _couldn’t_ tell him.”  The second wince was more of a fearful cringe; Greg didn’t want to lose his son, but Dean’s reaction was unlikely to be much better than Clark’s.  “So, yeah, I don’t think a birthday party’s going to work out this year.”

Greg met the teen’s sad, stubborn expression with a stubborn look of his own.  “She doesn’t get to take anything more from you, _mio nipote_ ,” the Sergeant rumbled.  “It’s going to take a day or two to get the party together again, but we are going to have it.  Now, it’s true that neither Eddie nor I told Clark and Dean that you’re still alive, but _that_ was because of the De-Aging Potion.”

Uncertainty flashed, then Lance nodded once and set his jaw, but Greg wasn’t fooled for an instant.  His nephew was still afraid of the two older boys’ reaction, even if he was determined to hide it.  Greg calculated the best way to respond, rapidly sorting through what to say…then he stopped.  In the space of eight hours, Lance had gone from four years old to sixteen, been stripped of his humanity – at least in the magical world – and beneath the brave look, the teen was utterly exhausted.

So instead of trying to talk Lance out of his stiff upper lip, Greg shifted his attention back to Merlin and hiked a brow.  “Why do you ask about a birthday party?”

Merlin looked between Parker and Lance, his eyes softening as he discerned what Greg had.  The warlock pulled three boxes from his cloak as he replied, “I have wands for both Lance and his sister, Alanna, as well as a gift from a group of dwarves.”  Merlin offered the boxes to Lance, adding, “Please, give my regards to your sister, young man.  The gift from the dwarves seemed, by my reck, to be intended for something specific, but you will have to discover that purpose yourself; they sent no message.”

Lance inclined his head in a partial bow as he took the boxes; Greg noted that two of them were shaped like wand boxes and the last was a squarish box with no markings.  The two wand boxes both had a small silver shield engraved in the center, with a red lion rampant, the Narnia tree, and gold outlining a leafy crown above the lion.  At the bottom of the shields, initials for both teens were engraved, identifying which box belonged to which teen; the boxes sported corners with sturdy metal edges.  One box’s corners had vines and flowers while leaves adorned the other box’s edges.  The teenager left all three boxes closed and his hands trembled just a touch as he adjusted them in his grip so they wouldn’t fall.

Greg rested one hand on his nephew’s shoulder and quietly thanked Merlin for him, then the Sergeant looked to his counterpart and added, “We can talk more tomorrow if you’d like.”

The other man tossed Parker a quick thumbs up and turned to gather his team up; Merlin vanished in another flurry of wind.  As Team Three departed…to where, Greg didn’t much care…Team One encircled their Sergeant and his nephew, joined by Roy and Giles.  “It’s been a long day…a long _week_ ,” Greg admitted, watching as his team nodded agreement.  “I think it’s better not to make any decisions while emotions are still running high and we’re all exhausted.  Eddie, you and I need to discuss when and how to tell Clark and Dean, but that’s for another day.”

“Copy, Boss,” Ed acknowledged.

“Remember, next week are our evaluations, both here and at the Auror Division.  We’re still going to do both days unless something else happens; I’d rather keep our options open.”  Greg paused, watching his team for any signs of extreme disagreement.

Ed broke in, “Boss, Sophie’s getting pretty close…”

Greg blinked, mentally scrambling for an instant.  “I can’t promise anything, Eddie, but I’ll do my best to get you out of here as quickly as possible.”

The team leader grimaced, but understood his boss’s dilemma…if they were in the middle of a hot call, then there wouldn’t be a _thing_ Greg could do, much as they both hated it.

“Wordy, if you and Shelley don’t mind, we’ll stay one more night and then head back to our apartment tomorrow,” Greg continued.

“Sure thing, Sarge,” Wordy agreed at once.  “If you want, you guys can stay longer.”

Greg declined with the slightest shake of his head; the faster he could get the kids back to a normal routine, the better right now.  “As far as the party goes, for now, it’s postponed.”  Spike and Lou looked disappointed, but their Sergeant didn’t care.  “Something to deal with later,” _much later_.  “Any questions, guys?”

Team One traded looks and Greg watched as his team held a silent conversation, though it didn’t escape his notice that Lance had managed to edge himself to be just outside the team’s circle.  It took all his willpower to keep from pulling his nephew back in, but his instincts…his sixth sense…told him not to.  As friendly as his nephew was, as eager and outgoing, he was a private young man – a private young man who’d just had his world turned upside down and inside out.

When his team didn’t have any questions, Greg dismissed them for the day, though he didn’t move towards the locker room himself at first.  Instead, he slid up beside his nephew.  “You okay?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“I’m fine,” Lance replied, though his shaky voice betrayed him at once.

“That’s Ed’s line,” Greg teased gently, earning a ghost of a smile.

The young man looked over at the briefing room and through its windows at the setting sun.  “One day.”  Greg waited and Lance allowed a bitter laugh.  “One day…seems like it’s been a thousand years since this morning.”

“A lot happened.”

Sapphire met brown.  “Will it get better?”

“Maybe not at first,” Greg admitted quietly, “But eventually, yes, it will.”  He looked down at the wand boxes.  “You gonna open yours?”

Lance looked down, but made no move to open either wand box.  “Maybe later,” he replied.  His eyes returned to the setting sun; Greg sighed internally and left him there while he himself headed to the locker room to change.  When Parker returned, Lance was still watching as the sunset turned the clouds shades of orange, yellow, and violet; Wordy stood nearby, keeping an eye on the teen.

Greg drew his nephew away from his vigil, slinging an arm around his taller _nipote’s_ shoulders.  “Come on, _mio nipote_ , let’s go home.  It’ll all look better in the morning.”

Lance jerked, but gave his uncle a tentative smile.  “A new day.”

Wordy, walking close enough to hear, grinned at that.  “New day, new wand, even Sarge’s new car.”

Lance practically pricked his ears at that.  “You got a new car?”

“Well, _somebody_ crashed the old one,” Wordy teased.

“Yes, I got a new car,” Greg replied, ignoring his constable.  “And yes, you can drive it.”  The Sergeant bit back his wide smile as Lance started bouncing in anticipation.  “Tomorrow,” Greg added firmly, stifling a chuckle at his nephew’s instant wilt.

Tomorrow they’d have to start dealing with the aftermath of the past week and how to keep their lives from falling apart, but for now, the two men traded amused looks as Lance started bouncing again, finally perking up as he peppered both adults with questions about the new car.  Wordy started describing a classic sports car and Greg let him, choking on a snigger or two at the way Lance was lapping it all up.  A prank war in the beginning stages, but the Sergeant didn’t mind a bit.  Instead, he watched as the sun finished slipping below the horizon.

“Uncle Greg, did you _really_ get a _Delorean_?” Lance asked eagerly.

Greg blinked at his nephew, then past him to Wordy, his eyes narrowing playfully.  “Mr. Wordsworth, have you been filling my nephew’s head with wild stories?” he demanded in a mock-angry tone.

Wordy froze, giving his boss a pleading look.

The Sergeant smirked.  “Nothing too obvious, _mio nipote_ ,” he chided, before walking past Wordy, hiding his grin.

A grin that only grew at Wordy’s betrayed cry of, “ _Sarge!_ ”

 

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end - at least for this story. As I'm sure everyone's figured out by now, we have arrived at the end of Season 3. Stay tuned for the team's... _yearly_ evaluations, starting on Friday, November 23rd, 2018, in "Divided We Fall".
> 
> Also, in honor of Thanksgiving, a new Side-Story, "Lessons on Life and Dueling, will go up this Thursday, November 22nd, 2018.
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving All!


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